


steady hands & breakable things

by kunimi



Series: rituals between the seams [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Mirror Sex, Sakusa Kiyoomi's wrists, osamu: teases sakusa against his lips, sakusa kiyoomi has a fixation on miya osamu's hands. i don't make the rules, sakusa: disgusting. no don't stop kissing me wtf, that should be a tag already tbh, this is just 1.5k of omigiri & mirrors & osamu not shutting up & sakusa's traitorous heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:21:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26044918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kunimi/pseuds/kunimi
Summary: Osamu’s eyes are dark, and Kiyoomiwants.“You make my favourite noises,” Osamu murmurs, and Kiyoomi bites down on a low whine. He likes Osamu when he’s mean, is compelled by him when he’s thoughtful, but he has no defences left against the Osamu of these moments, who gives him parts of himself like he trusts Kiyoomi will keep them safe.It’s not that Kiyoomi does not trust his hands. It’s that he’s never held anything so breakable before.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Series: rituals between the seams [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1890673
Comments: 23
Kudos: 143
Collections: stories that touched me, 🐶🍙 omigiri fanfic collection





	steady hands & breakable things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eclipsed (lucitae)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucitae/gifts), [inattention](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inattention/gifts).



> this is not what i thought the first omigiri fic i would publish would be but aya & kuro gave me brainrot last night and i woke up today and wrote this on my phone jkfdskjjf
> 
> i posted it earlier on my new nsfw twt in the form of slightly messy iphone notes screenshots, but hopefully this is easier to read lmao. anyway! stan osaomi. omigiri nation rise

“You’re so fuckin' _pretty_ ,” Osamu groans against the column of Kiyoomi’s neck, and Kiyoomi can’t help but frown.

He knows he’s attractive. He does not believe in false humility. But pretty? When Osamu is on top of him, cheeks flushed, hair mussed, eyes bright with desire? Kiyoomi could not possibly compare. He wants to chase Osamu’s swollen lips with his own, wants to thrust his cock between them until Osamu stops saying such ludicrous things, wants to whisper words he’s never said before against them.

Miya Osamu makes Kiyoomi want a lot of things he’s never wanted before, and it’s as terrifying as it is intoxicating.

“Don’t make me gag you,” he threatens instead of saying any of that, but he cards his fingers through Osamu’s hair anyway, because he’s weak, because he’s hopeless, because Osamu is so fucking pretty that he makes Kiyoomi _want_ to touch him, just to remind himself that he’s there.

“Kinky,” Osamu smirks against his skin, and Kiyoomi fights the twin reactions of wanting to slap him and wanting to groan a kiss into his stupid mouth. He settles for a glare. Osamu notices, letting out a low chuckle. It’s disgusting how warm that makes Kiyoomi feel.

“You’d like that, I think,” Osamu says, slowly dragging himself up Kiyoomi’s body, so that he’s straddling him, strong thighs pressing against his skin. It’s simultaneously too much and not enough, but Kiyoomi is very aware of Osamu’s eyes on him, the weight of their care, the way they watch him for any signs that it’s too overwhelming. It makes Kiyoomi’s gut ache in a way that has nothing to do with the way Osamu’s body feels against his, and everything to do with the quietly pleased expression he’d worn the first time he’d made Kiyoomi smile, and Kiyoomi doesn’t know what to do with that.

“Tyin' something around my mouth—maybe one of the ties for those suits ya hate so much?” Osamu continues, grinning down at Kiyoomi, lightly ghosting his chest with firm fingers, made for spiking volleyballs, made for crafting onigiri, made for drawing shuddering gasps from Kiyoomi. “I think you’d miss my voice, though,” Osamu says, leaning down to whisper it into Kiyoomi’s ear, his breath ghosting over his skin. Kiyoomi shivers, and immediately scowls to cover it up.

“Your voice is annoying,” Kiyoomi says flatly.

“Oh?” Osamu asks, his tone low and gravelly, and it goes straight to Kiyoomi’s cock, twitching beneath Osamu’s ass. Kiyoomi hates him. Kiyoomi wants to kiss that cocksure grin off his face. Kiyoomi wants to know when Osamu learned how to see right through him.

He doesn’t say anything, just holds Osamu’s gaze, and Osamu breaks it. He leans down to press a kiss to Kiyoomi’s lips, soft and tender, and somehow, it makes Kiyoomi feel more stripped bare than all the inches of their skin pressed together.

“If I couldn’t speak,” Osamu murmurs, “then who’d remind ya to look at yerself?”

He breaks the kiss, moving down Kiyoomi’s body. His mouth trails down the column of Kiyoomi’s neck, the curve of his chest, the grooves of his abdomen, like he’s panning for gold, finding it in every shudder of Kiyoomi’s limbs, every hitched breath.

Kiyoomi watches him, but his eyes aren’t focused on the Osamu in front of him, the Osamu—Kiyoomi gasps—who is enveloping Kiyoomi’s cock with his mouth, the Osamu tugging one of Kiyoomi’s hands towards his hair.

Kiyoomi’s eyes are focused to their left, on the mirror reflecting his own fingers twining in Osamu’s hair, the way his back arches when Osamu hollows his cheeks. He prefers to watch himself doing things to Osamu—the way Osamu’s mouth parts when Kiyoomi flicks his wrist with a hand wrapped around him, the way Osamu’s muscles strain when Kiyoomi presses into him at the right angle, the way Osamu’s fingers grip into the side of the bed when Kiyoomi bites his shoulder—but there’s something entrancing about the sight of Osamu buried between his thighs. It’s almost like Kiyoomi can’t tell where he begins and Osamu ends.

He tugs hard on Osamu’s hair, and revels in the sight in the mirror: a sharp flick of his wrist, Osamu’s back arcing, pressing his body further into the sheets as Kiyoomi jerks his head up.

Osamu’s eyes are dark, and Kiyoomi _wants_.

“You make my favourite noises,” Osamu murmurs, and Kiyoomi bites down on a low whine. He likes Osamu when he’s mean, is compelled by him when he’s thoughtful, but he has no defences left against the Osamu of these moments, who gives him parts of himself like he trusts Kiyoomi will keep them safe.

It’s not that Kiyoomi does not trust his hands. It’s that he’s never held anything so breakable before.

Kiyoomi watches Osamu carefully drizzle lubricant into the palm of his hand, gently coating his fingers in it, warming it, and then he’s pressing a finger into Kiyoomi at the same time that he presses his lips sweetly against Kiyoomi’s mouth.

“I can do that,” Kiyoomi says against Osamu’s mouth, and Osamu lets out a low groan that goes straight to Kiyoomi’s cock. Kiyoomi chances a glance at the mirror again, and flushes, his eyes trailing down the line of Osamu’s arm, the bend of his wrist, the way his finger disappears into Kiyoomi.

“I won’t last if ya do,” Osamu admits, huffing a laugh. “D’you have any idea how fuckin’ _hot_ ya look when you’re doing that? Just... lookin’ me in the eyes, like you’re not just fuckin’ into yerself at some insane angle while kissin’ me… _fuck_ ,” he breathes out, a hoarse chuckle accompanying his words, and Kiyoomi somehow gets _harder_.

“I betcha the store that I could come untouched just watchin' ya fuck yerself on yer fingers,” Osamu says, pushing a second finger into Kiyoomi as he does so, and suddenly Kiyoomi’s mind goes blank. A moment later, it explodes into colour, images flashing through his mind – Kiyoomi twisted across the bed, tugging groans from his throat as he curls his fingers inside himself – Osamu kissing down his body, eyes fixated on the mirror’s reflection of Kiyoomi’s fingers moving inside himself – Osamu with his hands bound with that tie he mentioned earlier, from the stupid suits Kiyoomi has to wear because of his sponsorship deals, arms straining but helpless to do anything but watch – Kiyoomi stroking himself with one hand, his other hand still moving inside him, finally coming with a cry, Osamu’s name on his lips – _Osamu_ coming untouched, face flushed and eyes glassy, hurtling forward to crash his lips against Kiyoomi’s—

“ _Fuck_ ,” Kiyoomi gasps, and there’s three fingers inside him now, and he wants more, he wants anything, he wants _everything_ , every little piece of Osamu that he can take. He does not care for loud noises, finds expressions of emotion generally disquieting, but he wants Osamu to make him scream his name until his voice gives out. He wants Osamu to mouth his appallingly flirty lines into his neck, grazing his teeth across his skin. He wants to be pressed against Osamu so badly that it scares him, the idea that he can feel so much desire that his body comes alive with it.

“That’s the idea,” Osamu grunts, and Kiyoomi wants to throttle him.

“I’m seriously considering the gag,” Kiyoomi tells him, but Osamu just huffs a laugh, pressing a kiss against Kiyoomi’s mouth. Kiyoomi kisses him back, because he’s hopeless, because he’s desperate, because he’s a constant disappointment to himself when it comes to Miya Osamu.

Osamu carefully removes his fingers, and Kiyoomi feels empty in a way that is not just physical. He refuses to acknowledge that, so he twists his head to the side, watching them in the mirror. He’s splayed on his back, legs bent at the knees, and Osamu is kneeling between them, rolling a condom onto his cock. It’s a steady motion, like everything Osamu does, but there’s a trembling to the set of his shoulders that makes Kiyoomi’s chest flush with pride and pleasure. He knows he is the one of the two of them who most consider reserved, but it is no small feat to make Miya Osamu come undone.

“Are ya ready?” Osamu asks, one hand on Kiyoomi’s thigh, the other resting by Kiyoomi’s head, keeping him propped up. In response, Kiyoomi lifts the leg Osamu is touching and hooks it over Osamu’s shoulder. He raises an eyebrow, but nods minutely.

Osamu grins. “ _Fuck_ , you’re gorgeous,” he says, and then he’s pressing into Kiyoomi slowly, his groan harmonising with Kiyoomi’s shuddering breath. He holds himself up, waiting for Kiyoomi to adjust, and Kiyoomi’s eyes flit over him, soaking him in. Osamu is trembling with effort, maybe sensation too, but he’s careful not to move, careful to keep his hands in place, careful to breathe gently.

Kiyoomi thinks, in a moment of stunning clarity, that it’s a good thing Osamu’s hands are so steady, because he thinks he gave him all of his breakable pieces long ago.

Osamu cocks an eyebrow at him, his lips quirking at the side in a half-smile, and Kiyoomi hates all the fluttery feelings that suddenly flood his chest.

“Go,” he says instead, nodding imperiously, and Osamu’s lips stretch into a grin.

“Anythin' for ya, Omi,” he says, and then he pulls back and snaps his hips forward, and Kiyoomi screams out his name.

**Author's Note:**

> my first posted nsfw and it's omigiri.... their power <3
> 
> come talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/kurokenns)!! (or on my [nsfw twt](https://twitter.com/KUNlKAGE))
> 
> NOW WITH BEAUTIFUL ART BY IRIS! follow [this link](https://twitter.com/kuehpng/status/1297255594290589697?s=21) to iris’ twitter post (full art found at a privatter post at the link). it’s absolutely wonderful and i am still blown away!!
> 
> fic post can be found on twt [here!](https://twitter.com/kurokenns/status/1297189150001692675?s=20)


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